My life a library of books concurrently recited to me
By time. The words are crooks

Because the have hooks
Upon my eyes and I, me;
My life a library of books

And some judge by the looks
Not paragraphs written to me
By time. The words are crooks.

The author cooks
Different stories for me to see;
My life a library of books.

My life filled with clocks
The tick and tock words to me
By time. The words are crooks!

My attention locks
On the words waves of the sea.
My life a library of books
By time. The words are crooks

I was broken with stitches, scars and weakness of the
Soul. You nursed my bedridden heart. My hidden wounds, pain ,they barely see the blood.

I was with fever,
Shivering, trembling.
Goosebumps covered
My head to toes.

The virus I contracted
Had no vaccine so there
Was no prevention for, the
Emptiness, the symptoms
When they were in full
Blast.

Then you entered and smiled.
As we spent more time
The conversations became
A kind of cure but in the silence, the placebo wore off.